The Debacle - Emile Zola [141]
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘I picked that up just now… It’s nothing, it doesn’t prevent me from sitting on my horse.’
And as he went back to take his place at the head of his regiment, he added:
‘When you’re on horseback and can stay there you can always manage.’
At last the two reserve batteries were coming up, which was an immense relief to the anxious men, for whom these guns were the rampart, the salvation, the thunder from heaven which would silence the enemy cannon over yonder. Moreover it was a superb sight, the parade-ground arrival of the batteries in battle order, each piece followed by its ammunition waggon, the drivers mounted on the near-horses and holding the off-horses by the bridle, the gunners on the boxes, with the corporals and sergeants galloping in their regulation positions. They might have been on parade, carefully keeping their distances as they advanced at a furious pace across the fields with the dull roar of thunder.
Maurice, who had lain down again in a furrow, got up all excited and said to Jean:
‘Look over there, the one taking the left position is Honoré’s battery. I recognize the men.’
With a quick back-hander Jean knocked him down again.
‘Just you get down and lie doggo!’
But even with their cheeks to the ground they both kept the battery in sight, very interested in the manoeuvre, and their hearts beat wildly as they watched the calm, active bravery of these men, from whom they still expected victory.
The battery suddenly came to a halt on a bare hilltop to the left, and in a matter of a minute the gunners jumped down from their boxes and uncoupled the limbers, the drivers left the guns in position, wheeled their horses to move fifteen metres to the rear and remain motionless, facing the enemy. The six guns were already trained, spaced well apart in three pairs commanded by lieutenants, all six being under the orders of a captain, a very tall thin man who paced fussily up and down the plateau.
‘Range sixteen hundred metres!’ the captain could be heard shouting after he had done his rapid calculations.
The target was to be the Prussian battery to the left of Fleigneux which was behind some brushwood and making the Illy Calvary untenable.
‘You see,’ Maurice went on with his explanations, for he couldn’t stop talking, ‘Honoré’s gun is in the centre section. There he is, leaning over with his gun-layer. The layer is young Louis, we had a drink together at Vouziers, don’t you remember? And over there the offside driver, the one sitting up so stiffly on his mount, a lovely arab, that’s Adolphe…’
The gun with its crew of six and sergeant, and beyond it the limber and its four horses mounted by two drivers, beyond that the ammunition waggon with its six horses and three drivers, still further off the supply and forage waggons and the smithy, the whole string of men, animals and equipment stretched out in a straight line for a good hundred metres to the rear, to say nothing of the spare horses, spare ammunition waggon, animals and men to fill the gaps, who were standing over to the right so as not to remain uselessly exposed in the line of fire.
Meanwhile Honoré was busy with the loading of his gun. The two centre gunners were already on their way back with the charge and shell from the ammunition waggon where the corporal and artificer were in charge and at once the two men at the muzzle put in the charge of powder wrapped in serge, which they pushed carefully down with the ramrod, then slid in the shell, the studs of which squeaked along the rifled barrel. The assistant layer quickly exposed the powder with his wire and pushed the fuse into the touch-hole. Honoré wanted to train the first round himself, and half lying on the mounting, he turned the adjusting screw to find the range, indicating the direction with a continuous movement of his hand to the gunner behind, who with a lever moved the gun very gradually further right or left.
‘That’s about it,’ he said, straightening up.
The captain came and checked